Which, when the angry tempests blow,
And heaven’s bolts from high are hurled—
Speaks peace and mercy to the world—
Forward here springs an Indian maid,
As light as fawn in forest glade,
Her cheek with generous ardour glowing,
O’er her slight form the dark hair flowing,
While firm resolve, and feeling high,
Sparkle in her soul-speaking eye.
“O Father, spare the chief!” she cries,